


(people only care) if you’re pretty or dying young or just lying bold but afraid of trying

by we_the_hollow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:56:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_the_hollow/pseuds/we_the_hollow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is a stripper and Liam is very, very drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this was originally inspired by pretty woman but i guess i changed it a lot hm  
> unbeta'd so any mistakes are entirely my own p.s, there's probably a lotas it's like 2 .a.m over here

They’re in a grimy coffee shop somewhere in Camden.

It’s the kind that doesn’t have a pretentious well-known name like _Costa_ or _Starbucks,_ just partially lit green and yellow neon letters hanging loose, some seemingly haphazard semblance of vowels and consonants in a greasy window with broken shades. The kind that serves shitty tea and shittier coffee (in polystyrene cups with your name written in highlighter that smudges on your palm if you keep a hold of the cup too long) and spectacular apple pies on fine bone china served with a fork that has five prongs. The kind that stays open all through the bleak nights until the moon bleeds out and the sun bleeds in, black satin to cornflower blue, and clouds like cotton wool stained in the grey nail polish your mother had a hard time removing from the kitchen table.

Liam might even call it his favourite place in the entire world.

The lights are a dim orange and one bulb is flickering and the heating is rattling like there’s something trapped inside and maybe the coffee maker shouldn’t be making that noise, but there’s something homey about the entire place. Something simple. It’s not putting on a face or a mask, it’s being what it is. Function over form and all that.

It reminds Liam of when he first moved to London and stumbled through the door of his older cousin’s apartment drenched to the bone. Everything was a little grimy. Everything was a little used. Everything was painfully _honest_. Nothing tried too hard and nothing was ashamed and everything here was what Liam had always wanted.

Sure, good money brought good prospects and good environments to grow up in, but it didn’t bring happiness. Despite the fucking cliché of it all, money did not buy happiness. Everybody was right in saying that. Liam’d certainly never been truthfully happy at home; everything was too routine, too clean and laid out and set in a calendar five years ahead. Despite his outward appearance of togetherness, Liam liked the thought of London and its deconstructed way of living very much.

And it is while mulling all this over in his head, as he does when he feels he wants to leave the place he loves, (maybe the freezer packed in or he burnt his lamb shank or the television is snowing again) that he catches himself staring. And he’s not just staring at a wall or a table or his hands, even. No. He’s staring into oblivion, into _deepdeepdeep_ endlessness, into a hundred thousand leagues of pure gold. And oblivion is staring right back.

Maybe this is what it feels like. To drown, he thinks. All consuming, all encompassing, all ending one lungful of gold at a time, eyes blinking furiously as thought it’ll help. As though seeing everything and nothing all around you will lessen the horror. A misguided flicker of hope in your heart _like a firefly whose light is dimming_ that you’ll make it to the surface. Like a light bulb in a grimy coffee shop somewhere in Camden that refuses to give up the fight, keeps shining valiantly for the people who sit beneath it.

But nobody who ever saw oblivion lived to tell the tale. Or rather, they chose not to tell it. A secret kept is a secret made more scared.

Because you see, oblivion is a pair of eyes. A pair of eyes the size of a large button, set gold and flecked with amber in a russet skinned face. A pair of eyes that crinkle at the sides in unison with sinful pink lips and a wide, crooked smile that flashes Hollywood white teeth. A pair of eyes veiled in thick black lashes that cast shadows on high cheekbones. So you see, oblivion is a pair of eyes. Oblivion is a face. Oblivion is a boy named Zayn Malik. But we’re not there yet; this scene comes later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here, have some lilo fluff bitches.

It’s dead silent, save for his own breathing. It’s dead silent and it is two-fifty seven on a Monday morning and it is bloody cold.

Liam knows this because he has been awake, body trembling in the cool air, eyes locked determinedly on his alarm clock since two-forty four. He missed his own birthday by almost three hours but that is irrelevant. Birthdays become irrelevant and you stop staying up till midnight on the eve of your birthday when you are fifteen. Liam is still disappointed he fell asleep.

But of course, this is irrelevant.

Because, well. There is another body in Liam’s bed and it has been his birthday for almost three hours (the birthday part is irrelevant though, remember that later) .The other body isn’t quite so still and is showing no signs of doing as much any time soon. Liam is staring so hard at the garish red numbers on his alarm clock that he thinks if he were to look away now they would be burned onto his retinas.

His head aches.

Foreign yet too familiar hands have been groping inappropriate areas, knees and elbows have been digging into questionable places, and lips have been wandering to unchartered planes all in an effort to wake him up. So Liam gives in because Liam always gives in.

“I’m not a bloody climbing frame, y’know,” he says, staying where he is curled into himself, basketball shorts low on his hips, blankets having been stolen in yet another attempt to wake him. The other body is lying half on top of Liam and half on top of Liam’s mattress and Liam thinks God, why?

“Just trying to get comfy, if you’re quite finished snarky arse,” a too familiar voice replies, and then a scoff that could pass as a laugh or a choke, “Have you been awake this whole time?” Liam can practically hear the wicked smirk in the raspy lilt. The owner of the other body is incredibly wicked and revels in wicked deeds. Such as groping Liam in his sleep and lying half on top of him. Liam is used to it by now, though. But only because he has to be.

The owner of the other body is more Disney Villain wicked, rather than say, Charles Manson wicked. This, surprisingly, doesn’t make the owner more bearable at ungodly hours of Monday mornings.

“How could I not have been? You’re like a bloody w- well you like to – and I – _your hands, God_ \- we - you’re like something that moves around a lot and doesn’t know how to keep still, alright? And I’d appreciate if you’d use less elbows and knees thank you please,”

“Oooh Payne’s cranky!”

“Shut up will you? Let me sleep. I need sleep. Sleep is essential to my physical and mental wellbeing,” Liam huffs, turning only slightly to retrieve his blankets, catching a sight of china blue eyes sparkling in the pale moonlight that streams into his bedroom through half shut blinds.It’s bloody cold and Liam’s head aches.There’s a light hum, lasting only one or two syllables, and Liam already misses the other voice when the room is cast into silence again. His head still aches but it’s a different ache. It’s throbbing with concern.

“Why are you in my bed anyway?” He says after a beat, not exactly thrilled at the prospect of a silent bedroom when more than one person is occupying it. Liam turns now so he’s flat on his back, and crosses his arms over his chest making an act of being well and truly pissed off.  He pouts his lips too for good measure. And dramatic effect. His head is throbbing with concern and it is incredibly inconvenient.

“Mine broke,” the other person says, voice lilting and soft, melancholy and raspy with too much or too little sleep.  Liam wants to shout and scream and possibly shake some sensitivity into himself because really? Of all the beds in all the world this person had to clamber like a three year old into Liam’s.

“Oh,” he says instead, not sure if prying would be right and probably too tired to care.

“Yep,”

“Louis?” To Hell with what is right. Prying is never right but there’s a body in his bed (and he should very much like to know why that is since every cell and atom in his body is practically begging him to ask). Not that he’s complaining, just that he likes to know these things is all. 

“What?”

“That’s not what happened at all is it,” Liam says, turning to Louis now as he drapes the covers over both their shoulders and lifts his leg so their thighs can slot together, because somewhere along the way, this has become customary for damage control. Whether it be broken ankle or broken kettle or broken heart. Split kneecap or teabag. Leaky taps or leaky eyes.

“Well no,” Louis sighs then, almost defeated and he brings a hand up from the confines of the covers to scratch at his nose absently before it disappears, along with the rest of him, beneath the waves of cotton. He sighs again, and Liam thinks it sounds like he’s asking permission. Permission to pour your heart out and possibly stain my sheets with your tears? Granted. Liam says in his head.

“Go on then,” Liam replies, squeezing at what he assumes is Louis’ elbow in encouragement, though he knows it won’t take much.

And it’s like a dam breaks as Louis whispers out in a single muffled breath, “Meandniallhadafightagain,” and gasps, almost as if it’s a weight lifted, or a secret he wasn’t meant to share. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth then, china blue eyes glistening, and blinks up at Liam from where his cold nose is pressed into Liam’s ribs.

“Of course you did,” and it’s Liam’s turn for melodramatic sighs. Louis buries his face in the crook of Liam’s elbow and shudders.

“He forgot the milk, Liam! He fucking forgot the milk again and I hate him so much, I really do this time,” says Louis, voice loud and full of outrage that’s muffled by Liam’s skin and blankets. It sort of takes the dramatic effect away and Liam has to bite Louis’shoulder to stop himself from laughing. He chooses to smile into the darkness instead. This is ‘ _obviously a very serious matter Liam, why are you being like this?_ ’

“It’s alright,”

“ _It’s alright_? Alright he says! Pray tell thee, oh great sage, hath thou any more words of wisdom?” Louis’ looking, no staring at Liam now, covers hooded over his messy hair, eyes narrowed in veiled rage as he grips tighter to Liam’s elbow like maybe he needs it to keep from floating away.

“No, Louis, I haven’t, it’s three in the morning and you’re sort of lying on top of me,”

“Fine, I’ll go! Don’t have to be so mean about it,”

“No stay you bloody idiot, just sleep for now, we’ll talk tomorrow I promise,”

“Ok,” Louis sighs then, lets out everything that managed to stay behind, lets out all the monsters and they escape into the darkness. It’s like a weights been lifted. Liam sighs too, more out of tiredness than whatever it is Louis is feeling right now. But it’s three in the morning so Liam can pretend like he doesn’t care and this can wait till a godly hour. But he’s lying. He’ll stay awake, worrying, wondering, wishing for Louis.

“Alright,” he says and the room is silent once more.

“Liam?”

“Mm?”

“I’m not crying, my eyes are leaking,”

“I know, Lou,”

“Liam?”

“Mhm?”

“Love ya,”

“Yeah, love you too Lou,”

"Liam?"

"Yes Louis?"

"Happy Birthday..."

And the last thought Liam thinks before he closes his eyes is that, suddenly, birthdays _are_ rather relevant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis and niall are like..the ultimate partners in crime are they not? of course they are.

“You have to trust us Leeyum!” Niall and Louis say in unison because they are in fact thirteen year old girls and not Liam’s best mates who are twenty one and twenty three respectively.  Liam can handle Louis, he can. He can resist him and his ridiculous plans and wicked smirk and persuasive hands on inappropriate places. Liam can handle Niall, too. He can resist Niall’s pleading and _that thing_ he does with his eyes and the endearing smile with the braces he was meant to get off last year.

But the two of them together?

The wicked smirk and ridiculous plan and _that thing_ with the eyes and the pleading has been known to make even the most determined and manliest of men crumble. “I don’t have to trust anyone,” Liam bites because no way in Hell. He is manly and determined and trusting Louis and Niall is like trusting – well, it’s not good is what it is. But he can do this. He _can_ resist them. Because he _has_ to.

Effectively, they are partners in crime and Liam tries _so hard, he really does_ , to not get involved in their antics. But you see, Liam is a weak and curious soul and he can very often be taken advantage of by Louis and Niall. Liam gives in because Liam always gives in. he is not manly nor is he very determined when it comes to Niall and Louis. His friends know this best. The bastards.

And that is why now, he is sat in the back of Niall’s beat up mini (with the Irish flag on the roof) in a suit and tie complete with dragonfly pin, refusing the hideous polkadot tie/blindfold that they’re trying to wrestle over his face. Without success of course; Liam’s biceps are like the size of Louis’ thighs or something. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t like to brag.  But something eerily enticing coils in his stomach when he eventually relaxes his muscles and gives in to silly little things like blindfolds/polkadot ties being put over his eyes.

“Yes you do, now hold still,” says Louis sternly, keeping a hold of Liam’s upper arm for good measure. When he sees no fight in Liam’s eyes, his own sparkle dangerously. Liam is not at all manly or determined when it comes to Louis and Niall and he hates himself for it. Hates himself for ever having introduced them to each other. Will forever loathe the fact he is basically the reason they stopped wanking over each other in the school toilets and finally started, well, _wanking over each other._  

“Fine. But you’re still a pair of fucking idiots and I hate you for real,”

At the same time Niall whoops out a “Yessss! Yesyesyesyesyes! ”, Louis says, “Such obscenities from such a pretty mouth! Tsk tsk, Mr Payne, is that any way to treat your friends?”

“Whatever,”  
says Liam, sighing and leaning forward so Niall can reach around his head to adjust the blindfold with the polkadots/ tie.

-

“Can I take it off yet?”

“No you absolutely can not, Liam!” Louis shouts, swatting Liam’s hands away from the polkadot tie around his eyes. Liam has been in darkness for a little under an hour and he’s really starting to wonder where the fuck they’ve taken him. It can’t be good. Liam’s assumptions are verified when first he walks headfirst into a door that smells like cheap ale and cigarettes and then is lead – presumably -  inside the room behind said door and is met with the same musky smell.

He has a distant memory of long ago in his high school days stumbling drunkenly with Louis in tow into a cold metal door that smelled of cheap ale and cigarettes and _something else._ And if his memory serves him correctly, he continued on stumbling drunkenly into the room behind said door and was met with something that would probably serve as “ _something to get you through high school, mate_ ” for anyone other than Liam. Liam, poor, sweet, dear Liam who ran away to London when he was just fourteen to live with his older cousinwas traumatized for life.

It’s only been seven years. The memory is fresh. But it’s also like that first piece of bread in a loaf; fresh and probably nothing wrong with it, really, but you skip it anyway because it’s ugly.

“Please tell me y - ” There’s a sick feeling in Liam’s gut that only worsens when the blindfold/ tie with polkadots is final removed. All around him are middle aged men and a straggle of younger men off in a corner all laughing and chanting through the haze of smoke, all dressed in dishevelled suits, their shirts unbuttoned and ties loose around their necks, scantily clad young men and women writhing on stages in front of them, on the chairs beside them, in their laps and on their chests and faces. He’s at a strip club.

His best friends have brought him to a sleazy strip club.  The same one he drunkenly stumbled into when he was just sixteen, fresh from leaving high school.

“No. No. No way _you guuuyyys_ what were you thinking _?”_

“We were thinking you are twenty one today and you haven’t had a lap dance yet. We were thinking that that is a terrible and solemn fact. We were thinking Louis could have done it instead but that would be weird and apparently I’m a jealous cunt so we ruled that last one out,” Niall smiles and does _that thing_ with his eyes and the next thing Liam knows, he is being half dragged half shoved down a dimly lit corridor with obscene and definitely not PG rated noises coming from each door he passes. Which happens to be a lot of fucking doors.

When Liam is finally brave enough to chance a glance to his left, it’s just in time to see the tall, slim, naked body of a boy with curly hair pushing a flustered older man with a lopsided quiff onto a bed and immediately going for the downstairs area. Liam blushes furiously.  

Half a minute or half a century later, Liam’s knuckles are colliding erratically with the hard painted wood of a door with a pretty gold plaque that reads _Zayn_.  But before anyone can answer, the knob is being turned by Louis and Liam’s being shoved mercilessly into the room with just a “ _Good luck_!” to calm the nerves pooling in his stomach. He leans his forehead against the door, eyes closed, hand on the polished knob. He _could_ leave. Technically, he could. But he doesn’t, because of course then, there’d be no story.  


End file.
